LETTERS OF THE LATE IGNATIUS SANCHO, AN AFRICAN. To which are prefixed, MEMOIRS of his LIFE.
THE THIRD EDITION.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY J. NICHOLS;
And Sold by C. DILLY, in the POULTRY
MDCCLXXXIV.
ADVERTISEMENT.
THE Editor of these Letters thinks proper to obviate an objection, which she finds has already been suggested, that they were originally written with a view to publication. She declares, therefore, that no such idea was ever expressed by Mr. Sancho; and that not a single letter is here printed from any duplicate preserved by himself, but all have been collected from the various friends to whom they were addressed. Her motives for laying them before the publick were, the desire of shewing that an untutored African may possess abilities equal to an European; and the still superior motive, of wishing to serve his worthy family. And she is happy in thus publicly acknowledging she has not found the world inattentive to the voice of obscure merit.
LETTER XIV. [14]
TO MR. [SOUBISE]
Richmond, Oct. 11, 1772.
YOUR letter gave me more pleasure than in truth I ever expected from your hands—but thou art a flatterer;—why dost thou demand advice of me? Young man, thou canst not discern wood from trees;—with awe and reverence look up to thy more than parents—look up to thy almost divine benefactors—search into the motive of every glorious action—retrace thine own history—and when you are convinced that they (like the All-gracious Power they serve) go about in mercy doing good—retire abashed at the number of their virtues—and humbly beg the Almighty to inspire and give you strength to imitate them.—Happy, happy lad! what a fortune is thine!—Look round upon the miserable fate of almost all of our unfortunate colour. Superadded to ignorance, see slavery, and the contempt of those very wretches who roll in affluence from our labours superadded to this woful catalogue—hear the ill-bred and heart-racking abuse of the foolish vulgar.—You, [Soubise], tread as cautiously as the strictest rectitude can guide you—yet must you suffer from this—but, armed with truth—honesty—and conscious integrity—you will be sure of the plaudit and countenance of the good;—if, therefore, thy repentance is sincere—I congratulate thee as sincerely upon it—it is thy birth-day to real happiness.—Providence has been very lavish of her bounty to you—and you are deeply in arrears to her—your parts are as quick as most mens; urge but your speed in the race of virtue with the same ardency of zeal as you have exhibited in error—and you will recover, to the satisfaction of your noble patrons—and to the glory of yourself.—Some philosopher—I forget who—wished for a window in his breast—that the world might see his heart;—he could only be a great fool, or a very good man:—I will believe the latter, and recommend him to your imitation.—Vice is a coward—;—to be truly brave, a man must be truly good; you hate the name of cowardice—then, [Soubise], avoid it—detest a lye,—and shun lyars—be above revenge;—if any have taken advantage either of your guilt or distress, punish them with forgiveness—and not only so—but, if you can serve them any future time, do it—you have experienced mercy and long-sufferance in your own person—therefore gratefully remember it, and shew mercy likewise.
I am pleased with the subject of your last—and if your conversion is real, I shall ever be happy in your correspondence—but at the same time I cannot afford to pay five pence for the honour of your letters;—five pence is the twelfth part of five shillings—the forty-eighth part of a pound—it would keep my girls in potatoes two days.—The time may come, when it may be necessary for you to study calculations;—in the mean while, if you cannot get a frank, direct to me under cover to his Grace the Duke of [Montagu]. You have the best wishes of your sincere friend (as long as you are your own friend)
Ignatius Sancho.
You must excuse blots and blunders—for I am under the dominion of a cruel head-ach—and a cough, which seems too fond of me.
LETTER LVIII. [58]
TO MR. [Jabez] F[isher].
Charles Street, January 27, 1778.
FULL heartily and most cordially do I thank thee, good Mr. F[isher], for your kindness in sending the books—that upon the unchristian and most diabolical usage of my brother Negroes—the illegality—the horrid wickedness of the traffic—the cruel carnage and depopulation of the human species—is painted in such strong colours—that I should think would (if duly attended to) flash conviction, and produce remorse, in every enlightened and candid reader.—The perusal affected me more than I can express;—indeed I felt a double or mixt sensation—for while my heart was torn with the sufferings which—for aught I know—some of my nearest kin might have undergone—my bosom, at the same time, glowed with gratitude and praise toward the humane—the Christian—the friendly and learned Author of that most valuable book.—Blest be your sect!—and Heaven’s peace be upon them!—I, who, thank God! am no bigot—but honour virtue and the practice of the great moral duties equally in the turban or the lawn-sleeves—who think Heaven big enough for all the race of man—and hope to see and mix amongst the whole family of Adam in bliss hereafter—I with these notions (which, perhaps, some may style absurd) look upon the friendly Author—as a being far superior to any great name upon your continent.—I could wish that every member of each house of parliament had one of these books.—And if his Majesty perused one through before breakfast—though it might spoil his appetite—yet the consciousness of having it in his power to facilitate the great work—would give an additional sweetness to his tea.—Phyllis [Wheatley]’s poems do credit to nature—and put art—merely as art—to the blush.—It reflects nothing either to the glory or generosity of her master—if she is still his slave—except he glories in the low vanity of having in his wanton power a mind animated by Heaven—a genius superior to himself. The list of splendid, titled, learned names, in confirmation of her being the real authoress, alas! shews how very poor the acquisition of wealth and knowledge are—without generosity—feeling—and humanity.—These good great folks all knew—and perhaps admired—nay, praised Genius in bondage—and then, like the Priests and the Levites in sacred writ, passed by—not one good Samaritan amongst them.—I shall be ever glad to see you—and am, with many thanks,
Your most humble servant.
IGNATIUS SANCHO.
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LETTER LXVI. [66]
TO MR. H——.
Charles Street, Westminster, May 31, 1778.
THE Sanchonian chapter of enquiries, dictated by an esteem nearly bordering upon affection (perhaps as warmly sincere as most modern friendships), runs thus—How do you do? Are you the better for your journey? Did the exercise create any amendment of appetite? Was your travelling party agreeable? And how did you find the good couple?—The sweet sensations arising from the sight of those we love, the reviewing the places, either houses, fields, hedges, stiles, or posts, of our early morn of life acquaintance, the train of pleasurable ideas awakened, are more salutary than the college of grave faces.—Tell me much about yourself—and more about your honored parents, whom I hope you found as well as you wished—your kindred at Lancaster, to whom my hearty wishes—and to all who have charity enough to admit dark faces into the fellowship of Christians.—Say much for me to your good father and mother—in the article of respect thou canst not exaggerate;—excepting conjugal, there are no attentions so tenderly heart-soothing as the parental.—Amidst the felicity of thy native fields, may’st thou find health, and diffuse pleasure round the respectable circle of thy friends!—No news—but that Keppel is in chace of de-Chartres.
Yours truly,
I. SANCHO.
If you can afford a line, inclose it in the inclosed.—Mrs. Sancho and girls wish you every pleasure.
LETTER CXXXIV. [134]
TO [JOHN SPINK], ESQ.
Charles Street, June 9, 1780.
MY DEAR SIR,
GOVERNMENT is sunk in lethargic stupor—anarchy reigns—when I look back to the glorious time of a George II. and a Pitt’s administration—my heart sinks at the bitter contrast. We may now say of England, as was heretofore said of Great Babylon—“the beauty of the excellency of the Chaldees is no more;”—the Fleet Prison, the Marshalsea, King’s-Bench, both Compters, Clerkenwell, and Tothill-Fields, with Newgate, are flung open;—Newgate partly burned, and 300 felons, from thence only, let loose upon the world. Lord M[ansfield]’s house in town suffered martyrdom; and his sweet box at Caen Wood escaped almost miraculously, for the mob had just arrived, and were beginning with it, when a strong detachment from the guards and light-horse came most critically to its rescue—the library, and, what is of more consequence, papers and deeds of vast value, were all cruelly consumed in the flames. L[or]d N[orth]’s house was attacked; but they had previous notice, and were ready for them. The Bank, the Treasury, and thirty of the chief noblemen’s houses, are doomed to suffer by the insurgents. There were six of the rioters killed at L[or]d M[ansfield]’s, and, what is remarkable, a daring chap, escaped from Newgate, condemned to die this day, was the most active in mischief at L[or]d M[ansfield]’s, and was the first person shot by the soldiers; so he found death a few hours sooner than if he had not been released.—The ministry have tried lenity, and have experienced its inutility; and martial law is this night to be declared.—If any body of people above ten in number are seen together, and refuse to disperse, they are to be fired at without any further ceremony—so we expect terrible work before morning.—The insurgents visited the Tower, but it would not do:—they had better luck in the Artillery-ground, where they found and took to their use 500 stand of arms; a great error in city politics, not to have secured them first.—It is wonderful to hear the execrable nonsense that is industriously circulated amongst the credulous mob, who are told his M[agest]y regularly goes to mass at L[or]d P[et]re’s chapel—and they believe it, and that he pays out of his privy purse Peter-pence to Rome. Such is the temper of the times—from too relaxed a government;—and a King and Queen on the throne who possess every virtue. May God, in his mercy, grant that the present scourge may operate to our repentance and amendment! that it may produce the fruits of better thinking, better doing, and in the end make us a wise, virtuous, and happy people!—I am, dear Sir, truly, Mrs. S[pink]’’s and your most grateful and obliged friend and servant,
I. SANCHO.
The remainder in our next.
Half past nine o’clock.
King’s-Bench prison is now in flames, and the prisoners at large; two fires in Holborn now burning.
LETTER CXXXV. [135]
TO [JOHN SPINK], ESQ.
June 9, 1780.
DEAR SIR,
HAPPILY for us, the tumult begins to subside:—last night much was threatened, but nothing done—except in the early part of the evening, when about four-score or an hundred of the reformers got decently knocked on the head;—they were half killed by Mr. Langdale’s spirits—so fell an easy conquest to the bayonet and butt-end.—There are about fifty taken prisoners—and not a blue cockade to be seen:—the streets once more wear the face of peace—and men seem once more to resume their accustomed employments.—The greatest losses have fallen upon the great distiller near Holborn-bridge, and Lord M[ansfield]; the former, alas! has lost his whole fortune;—the latter, the greatest and best collection of manuscript writings, with one of the finest libraries in the kingdom. Shall we call it a judgement?—or what shall we call it? The thunder of their vengeance has fallen upon Gin and Law—the two most inflammatory things in the Christian world.—We have a Coxheath and Warley of our own; Hyde Park has a grand encampment, with artillery, Park, &c. &c. St. James’s Park has ditto—upon a smaller scale. The Parks, and our West end of the town, exhibit the features of French government. This minute, thank God! this moment Lord G. G. is taken. Sir F. Molineux has him safe at the horse-guards. Bravo! he is now going in state in an old hackney-coach, escorted by a regiment of militia and troop of light horse, to his apartments in the Tower.
“Off with his head—so much—for Buckingham.”
We have taken this day numbers of the poor wretches, in so much we know not where to place them. Blessed be the Lord! we trust this affair is pretty well concluded.—If any thing transpires worth your notice—you shall hear from
Your much obliged, &c. &c.
IGN. SANCHO.
Best regards attend Mrs. S[pinks]. His lordship was taken at five o’clock this evening—betts run fifteen to five, Lord G[eorge] G[ordon] is hanged in eight days:—he wished much to speak to his Majesty on Wednesday, but was of course refused.
Image credits:
Frontispiece: Oval image, based on a 1768 painting by Thomas Gainsborough, now located in the National Gallery of Canada. Public domain via the Metropolitan Museum of Art
Title page: engraving by Francesco Bartolozzi (Italian, Florence 1728–1815 Lisbon), Public domain via the Metropolitan Museum of Art
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